


Drabble A Day July 2016

by Apostrophe (tangiblewhimsy)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Drabble a day, Gen, M/M, Multi, Not Beta'd, Oops, Other, This is unintentionally turning into a month of ColdFlash drabbles, oh god angst, spoilers ahoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:15:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangiblewhimsy/pseuds/Apostrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>50 drabbles in 31 days. Each 'chapter' is its own drabble, the stories are not connected to one another unless otherwise stated. Please read the tags and notes at the start of every chapter for pairings, ratings, and content warnings.</p><p>All stories focus predominantly on characters from CW's The Flash, but may include characters from Arrow, Legends of Tomorrow, and possibly characters pulled from comic book canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Church  
> Pairing: Barry Allen/Hartley Rathaway  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: Irreverence?

Church had never held much appeal for Hartley. Aside from the complicated relationship religion held with sexuality — and gay men in particular — there was always something disconcerting about the idea of large groups of people congregating to offer money and resources to an entity they had no logical reason to believe existed. While storied buildings, monuments, and cathedrals were designed and constructed to inspire awe, none Hartley had set foot in had ever filled him with a sense of reverence.

" _God!_ " Hartley gasped, sweat slipping from his fringe and down the side of his neck to make him shiver even as his limbs trembled with the effort of holding on. "Oh fuck, oh god, oh ffffffff—"

His voice cut off in a whine as lips attached to the extended column of his throat and it was everything Hartley could do not to go to pieces. Sure hands slid up the backs of his thighs without hurry, slipping to his stomach and torso and finally up to cup his face. Choking back another expletive as another thrust pressed him deeper into the mattress, Hartley opened his eyes and gave in to a breathless laugh as he was treated to the beautiful smile above him. As Barry kissed him, Hartley rocked his hips upward in time with Barry's thrusts.

If he was ever going to worship anything, he was pretty sure he could be convinced to worship this.


	2. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Love  
> Pairing: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart  
> Rating: General Audiences  
> Warnings: None

Early morning sunlight poured in through the bay of windows wrapping around the living room of Barry's new apartment, highlighting the dust moats floating over the sea of boxes waiting to be unpacked. Barry surveyed the room and the wide open space, smiling at the quiet and the privacy. There had been a lot of support and stability moving back in with Joe, but Barry was finally ready to be on his own again. He'd needed it, and when he'd seen the ads for the newly renovated building closer to both work and S.T.A.R. Labs, Barry'd had an inkling that it was time.

Not bothering to don a shirt or pants, Barry shuffled around his apartment in boxers and slippers looking for the box that contained his stereo. It wouldn't be hooked up to an entertainment system for a minute, but dragging the mess of cords and speakers to the kitchen Barry managed to get things set up temporarily with his phone for music before he dived into unpacking.

Barry hummed along to the music floating through the air, his voice occasionally becoming an indiscernible buzz as he flashed through the more tedious bits of unpacking. 

"L is for the way you looooooookatmeeee," his voice volleyed between melodic and comedic as he sped some cleaning supplies to their new home in the utility closet. "O is fortheonlyoooooone I see!" He flashed back to the living room and resumed his unpacking.

"V is very, very," Barry shifted his hips in time with the sharp horn notes. "Extra-ordinary! E is even more than anyone that you adore!"

Shuffling a short dance to his next box, Barry began pulling out books to be returned to his bookcases. Occasionally Barry would try to slide across the hardwood to his next location in a playful mime of his continued dance, his voice breaking into a short giggle as he nearly topped over a lamp in his clumsiness but recovering in rhythm with the song. Spinning on his heel, Barry figured it was time for a drink of water and maybe a snack as he started back for the kitchen.

"Two in love can make it, take my heart and please don't break it! Love was made for me and yo—OH SHIT!"

Nat King Cole's voice continued to belt out the last lines of the song as Barry felt the air go out of his lungs in shock. Leaning against his counter (looking too comfortable and too attractive for his own good) was Leonard Snart, who gave a slow clap. Barry felt the way his flush spread all of the way down his neck and to his chest, painfully aware of the amount of skin he was baring. The way Snart's eyes roved across his body from top to bottom and back again told Barry that his nemesis hadn't missed his state of undress either.

"Nice job, kid. Not a lot of people can nail that old crooning style, but you've got a good set of lungs on you," Snart complimented, his eyes having settled politely on Barry's face.

Barry's ears grew hot with embarrassment as he stomped over to his phone and unplugged it from the stereo system immediately. "What the hell are you doing here, Snart? How did you even get in?"

Snart lifted both hands in a placating sign of peace.

"I'm just here to welcome you to my building, Scarlet," Snart said, keeping his hands up but smirking devilishly.

Barry felt his jaw hit the floor.

" _Your_ building?" Barry asked weakly.

Snart's grin only grew.

" _My_ building," Snart confirmed, his voice low and steady, the sound of it curling dangerously in the pit of Barry's stomach. "Looks like I'm your new landlord, kid."

A pained sound escaped Barry in spite of himself as he cursed his luck.

"Rent's due the first of every month, but if you ever think you're going to be short you should let me know," Snart said, letting his eyes drift down Barry's chest and to his red chili pepper shorts. "I'm sure we could work something out."

When his gaze returned to Barry's face Snart was met with the best glare Barry could muster. Chuckling to himself, Snart pushed away from the counter and Barry stepped back to give him room to exit. He seemed content to leave but paused as he drew even with Barry on his way out, leaning in and speaking in that soft timbre again.

"Welcome to the neighborhood, Barry," he murmured before brushing past the speedster and leaving.

Barry waited until the door clicked shut before releasing the breath he'd been holding. Looking at his phone, he briefly considered calling someone about Snart's reappearance in Central City, but what was he going to say? He'd signed papers with a leasing company to live in a building he hadn't investigated, wasn't that really... his own fault? And he was pretty sure 'My landlord is also my arch nemesis' was not a valid argument to break a lease.

Groaning, Barry dropped his phone on the counter again and went to put on pants. He didn't notice the mason jar of cocoa mix (with a generous layer of mini marshmallows at the top) on his kitchen counter until later.


	3. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Pain  
> Pairing: None  
> Rating: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Warnings: Spoilers for S02, angst

Ever since becoming The Flash, Barry's understanding of pain had undergone a transformation as dramatic as the physical transformations experienced by his body. Before, the most excruciating physical pain Barry had known came from accidentally closing his hand in a car door when he was 13. He'd broken a few fingers, sprained his wrist, needed stitches and splints and painkillers (painkillers!) and all manner of things to help heal. The result of his healing at the end of nearly 6 months was a scar that ran faintly down the back of his hand and across his knuckles — at least until the lightning took it away.

Scrapes and scratches from falling off of his bike, from stumbling drunkenly home from a party he really shouldn't have been at, from accidentally jabbing himself with a dull scalpel during a dissection in college... All the marks a person acquired over the course of living a life were gone after he awoke from his coma.

Even now, physical damage faded. He'd been cut, he'd been frozen, he'd been thrown through walls and windows. Barry had been blown up and he'd been beaten down. His skin had been lacerated, his bones broken, his organs bruised. He'd even been blinded — until the lightning took it away.

Barry rarely needed stitches or splints anymore, and he could no longer gain anything from painkillers. The Speed Force hummed through him, accelerating the division of cells and the mending of bones and tissue. Scars that he should have had for life were gone in the blink of an eye as his body renewed his skin more rapidly in a minute than a normal human's did in an entire lifetime.

For all of the injuries the lightning had soothed, however, for all of the bruises, and burns, and breaks he'd endured, Barry would take back every scar gladly if it meant soothing the ache in his chest. He'd rather wear his pain in his body, treat it with sutures and bandages. At least then the pain would be something he could know for certain would heal eventually.

Resting a hand on the cool, rough stone of his father's grave marker, Barry gripped tightly enough that the coarse material began to cut into his palm. Sucking in a shuddering breath, Barry tried to remember what it was like when he was little and his father's healing hands treated a scraped knee or bruised elbow.

The lightning had taken his scars and taken his fear of physical pain. He couldn't help thinking, however, that it'd taken so much more from him as well. More than he'd ever really understood.


	4. Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sand  
> Pairing: None  
> Warnings: None

Being young professionals in the era of 24/7 living, it made sense at first that Team Flash didn't take days off. Villains were rarely respectful of traditional breaks in the work week like Friday nights or holidays, and if they were going to be doing their business then it was The Flash's job to be doing his, right?

Except no rest meant an increase in the likelihood of stress-induced accidents and illness. Caitlin had noticed that she'd been experiencing more fatigue for a while, but it wasn't until she actually looked at the mounting number of receipts for cold medicine (kept stocked both in her own home and at the labs for when she and Cisco invariably cross-contaminated one another) that she decided that there was a significant negative impact on the overall health of the team.

"What about emergencies?" Barry had tried to argue. "I know we get updates on our phones from the system sometimes, but it's always better to be here when new reports hit the system."

After some deliberation, Game Day was born. Based on statistical analysis (thanks, of course, to Cisco), Sundays were selected as a weekly 'on the job day off', where the team would converge at S.T.A.R. Labs so as to be present in case of an emergency, but otherwise concentrate their energies on a variety of board, card, and party games.

As Barry finished yet another near-masterpiece before even a quarter of the sand had dropped through the Pictionary hourglass, however, Cisco couldn't help whining.

"Dude, powers! That's no fair," Cisco pouted as he all but gave up on trying to complete his drawing. Beside him, Barry was putting the final touches on a near picture-perfect portrait.

"Oh hush, Cisco. You weren't complaining when he was on your team," Caitlin grinned as she sat back and sipped a mimosa. "And is that... Bill Clinton?"

"Bingo!" Barry grinned, capping his marker and giving it a triumphant twirl. Turning to Cisco, Barry tilted his head at his friend's canvas. "Is that a snake?"

"It was supposed to be a saxophone!" Cisco huffed.


	5. Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hero  
> Pairings: None  
> Warnings: Mild angst and some spoilers... ish?

Cisco hated his powers. Despite his best friend being one of the most powerful (if not _the_ most powerful) meta-humans alive, despite knowing that there was nothing wrong with having meta powers, despite knowing that in the right hands powers could be used to save lives, Cisco _hated_ his powers.

As a kid he would have given anything to be special in some way his family, friends, and community could have recognized. Although he'd patched up his relationship with Dante, the jealousy between them was rooted in years upon years of youthful disappointments. Yearning for praise and recognition as something other than "Dante's little brother".

Harrison Wells was the first person to bother to learn Cisco's name before they even met. Cisco had applied to S.T.A.R. Labs after graduating, but it had been more on a whim — a calculated risk taken based on the fact that if he never applied for the job he'd never be considered for it. He hadn't anticipated a callback, let alone from Dr. Wells himself. His family didn't understand why this was such a big deal, they didn't know who Harrison Wells was, but even that couldn't dampen his giddiness, his excitement at the prospect of working with one of the most respected men in science and engineering. It was the first time Cisco had ever felt like he finally stood out, like he was destined for more than just being an anonymous tech geek who worked a menial 9-to-5.

Cisco hadn't depended on being smart because he'd had no other talents. He'd relished in science, delighted in the wondrous possibilities the future held. Nothing gave him a bigger rush than figuring out a solution to a problem, especially in a moment of crisis. It was why he'd never hesitated to stay on as a member of Team Flash, why he hadn't tried to find alternative employment despite the fact that working for a defunct laboratory did nothing beneficial for his professional reputation. He was willing to ruin his career if it meant he got to help people who needed his specific skills.

Even so, no one had really treated him like he was anything unique until he'd started to vibe. Cisco wasn't so jaded as to think that the team took him for granted, but in an emergency the first reaction had always been to call for Barry — to call for a hero. With the revelation of his powers, Cisco suddenly fit the bill for a hero, he supposed.

He didn't want to be bitter. He appreciated that his friends supported him and wanted to help him work through the unknown variable that his meta-abilities presented. It's just that there were some days he wished that being a scientist, an engineer, a man with a brilliant mind, could be enough to be seen as a hero.


	6. Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Glass  
> Pairing: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart (implied)  
> Warnings: Spoilers for the end of DC's Legends of Tomorrow S1, angst

Accepting his glass from the bartender with a nod, Mick twisted around to survey the bar. He hadn't been to Saints & Sinners in a long, long time. Nearly a year in the timeline he was currently sitting in, but literal ages in his own twisted experiences with the Time Masters. He'd honestly almost forgotten this place existed, that it had once been a familiar haunt and favored location to pick up both business and pleasure. Too much of Central City in 2016 felt haunted to him now, but this place, in particular, felt crawling with ghosts. Sipping his whiskey, Mick rolled his shoulders as he let the burn of alcohol chase away the morose chill that had started to spread in his chest.

Pushing away from the bar, Mick began a slow stroll through the place. It was fairly early in the evening and most weekday regulars had yet to stumble in from whatever excuse for work they maintained. When he came to an empty booth with a good view of the entire bar, Mick slid into the far seat and took another sip as he scanned faces in the sparse crowd.

It had been early on in their time on the Waverider, after their trip to Russia and Mick's stint in the Gulag, that Snart had given him a number to memorize and instructions to call it back in 2016. He hadn't needed to specify that the number was one to call if Mick made it back to 2016 without Snart by his side. Mick had wondered who it was he was supposed to be calling, of course, and what it was he was possibly supposed to say. When his partner hadn't elaborated, however, Mick figured that it was a moot point anyway. If one of them was going to do something stupid and not make it back, it was going to be Mick.

Or so he'd thought.

The voicemail had been a default automated message when he'd called, and Mick figured it was probably Lisa's. Not wanting to take the risk of revealing something to a mystery machine, however, he'd kept his message short: a time and location to meet because Leonard Snart had said this number needed to be called. Mick wasn't sure who he was looking for, but he knew the kid when he walked in.

The first thing Mick noticed what that he was _young_. A damn kid, really. The youthful features were easy to read, too — the kid had no 'chill' as Snart would have put it. Bright eyes widened in shock as they landed on his face before the kid looked from side to side, as though contemplating bolting. Mick hoped he didn't, because he wasn't in the mood to go chasing after anybody. Jutting out his chin in acknowledgment, Mick motioned for the brunet to come join him.

Whoever the guy was, he had to be a straight shooter. He looked too nervous in Sinners & Saints to be a pro of any kind and as he slid into the bench across from Mick his slim shoulders seemed to hunch in his red hoodie. A quiet moment passed between them before the kid could finally meet Mick's gaze, and when he did he sighed deeply and ran a hand through tufts of thick hair before resting his hands on the table to steady himself.

"When I heard your voice on the message I thought it was a joke," he said softly, and there was something vaguely familiar about the timbre of his voice. Mick couldn't really place it, though, so he decided not to think about it too hard. If Snart had kept the kid secret, it was for a reason.

"You know my voice?" Mick asked curiously. There it was, wide eyes again, shock and surprise. There was no way the kid belonged in a place like Saints & Sinners, god damn.

"Er... Um, well... I, uh—"

Mick saved the kid from himself by holding up a hand to silence him.

"Don't sweat it, kid," he said and took another sip off his drink.

Looking from side to side again, it took another moment or so before a thought seemed to hit the kid that caused him to sober up. Sitting straighter in his seat, he squared his shoulders as he looked at Mick with an intensity that nearly had Mick leaning back and away. Suddenly he got why this could be someone important to Snart, in whatever way he was.

"Where's Len?" the kid asked, and the moniker was enough to clear up the mystery of what his relationship to Snart might have been.

Mick was silent for a moment, considering how he ought to proceed. At the end of the day, though, Snart would have asked someone else if he'd needed someone with tact.

"He's gone, kid," Mick answered honestly, his chest squeezing at the admission as his grip tightened on his glass.

Neither of them said anything for several long seconds. Mick watched as bright hazel eyes grew wet and decided to divert his gaze to his drink as he swallowed hard around the last of his whiskey. Closing his eyes a moment, Mick focused on the burn, willing it to spread through his entire body and consume him — if only, right? Letting out a deep sigh, he opened his eyes again and finally faced Snart's... lover? Had to be. Snart wouldn't have gone out of the way to keep him secret and safe if there wasn't something between them.

"How'd it happen?" he asked, managing to keep the tears at bay (although it was hard for Mick to miss the way his knuckles had turned white with how hard he was gripping the edge of the table).

"Look, kid, I don't really—"

"Barry," he interrupted and Mick's head tilted to the side curiously. "My name is Barry. Stop calling me kid. The only person who called me that was...." He let out a shuddering breath slowly and gripped the table tighter.

"Alright," Mick nodded. He waited a few seconds to allow the kid — Barry — to compose himself before continuing. "Barry," he tried again, "I don't really think Snart meant for there to be details."

Aside from that he technically shouldn't tell anyone who wasn't a part of the Waverider crew what had happened. The potential to mess up time and all that nonsense. Although a spiteful part of Mick that still found comfort in chaos almost wanted to do exactly that, to do everything he could possibly think of to ruin the future that had been so carefully cultivated and protected by the people responsible for his partner's eventual death.

"No," Barry said firmly, and finally a tear managed to slip. "We let each other have all kinds of secrets, but this one he doesn't get to keep from me. How did it happen?"

Mick paused again before giving a sigh and leaning forward on his elbows. Damn Snart for making this his job. Damn Snart for taking his place at the Vanishing Point. Damn Snart for dying and leaving so many god damn people behind, the absolute bastard.

"He died saving my life," Mick growled without looking up. "He died saving everyone's lives. He died a fucking hero, and you know what kid? I can't help but think it's probably somehow your fault."

Mick partially regretted the words once they were out of his mouth, but another, bitter part of them felt good having a place to put the blame. Looking up he felt a pang seeing raw pain openly displayed on Barry's face, but what was this kid's pain to his own? Snart had never had any idealism before. He'd thought it'd had something to do with The Flash coming to Central City, somehow making a case for being good and turning over a new leaf and all that bullshit, but Mick was pretty sure that the fresh faced boy in front of him likely had a much bigger influence.

Barry's mouth hung open wordlessly, and Mick gave another growling sigh and sat back.

"Somewhere along the line he decided that he needed to 'do good,' to impress somebody. I always thought it was the Scarlet Douchebag, but now... Fuck, kid. What did you do to him?"

Barry's mouth snapped shut and more tears threatened to fall.

"I... I have to go," Barry stammered as he struggled his way out of the booth, hanging his head as he took long strides to quickly make for the exit.

Part of Mick wanted to let the kid go. He didn't need to be involved with that part of Snart's life, he rather resented having been made a part of it at this juncture to begin with. Another, deeper part of him, however, knew that he couldn't say those things to someone who'd meant something to Snart. Too few people existed in the world who'd done anything kind to Snart, and even if Mick had mourned the loss of the partnership he'd grown familiar with, he knew Snart would fucking ice him on the spot if he'd been around to see how he'd treated this kid.

With another sigh, Mick slammed his glass against the tabletop before shoving out of his own seat and making for the door as well.

"Kid, wait—"

Mick had barely made it out the door when the wind whipped up and a crack of lightning trailed down the dark city street. He knew he'd seen the red hoodie just outside the bar before pushing through the door, he hadn't had nearly enough to drink to hallucinate anything or blur his vision. Left alone in the parking lot of Saints & Sinners, Mick let the cool night air course over his hot face as he leaned back against the rough texture of the building.

He supposed he'd been right the first time. 

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY, PLEASE FORGIVE ME.


	7. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Moonlight  
> Pairing: None  
> Warnings: None

As a millennial in the era of the 24/7 lifecycle, Barry had thought that he was no stranger to being tired. His generation had grown up with the expectation of 50+ hour work weeks, of working full-time while going to school full-time in order to mediate the damage of ballooning student debt and manage personal finances. It was just a generally accepted part of his reality that sleep was a luxury reserved for either the rich or the dead.

Part of him had thought that becoming the fastest man alive would help a little bit. If he could get everything that needed to be done in a day done quickly and done early, then perhaps he could start doing something bizarre like getting to bed at a reasonable hour and _sleeping_ through the night. That was an illusion he'd been disabused of shortly after taking on his first meta-human criminal, unfortunately. Moonlighting as a hero had its benefits, but a regular sleep schedule certainly wasn't one of them.

Admittedly being in a coma for nearly 9 months had somewhat dulled the appeal of 'sleeping like the dead' for Barry. The first week he was awake he'd actually had difficulty falling asleep because a part of him was worried about not waking up again. For the most part that anxiety had passed, but it had been replaced by others which made the prospect of laying still in a bed for 4 to 6 hours (the most sleep he ever got in a night these days) equally unpleasant. He knew, objectively, that he needed rest. He needed to sleep, he needed to let his mind and body recharge. When his tachycardic heart refused to ramp down, however, and a constant hum of nervous energy buzzed through his chest and into his limbs, it was impossible to convince himself that there was any benefit to staying still.

Sighing heavily, Barry heaved the weight of his blankets and sheets to the side, drawing his legs out of the bed and pulling himself up to sitting. A glance to his right told him it was nearly 4am, and while he technically had the day off and could afford to try and sleep more, Barry knew it wasn't worth laying in bed awake for another 4 hours. The way time worked for him these days, he'd probably go crazy before the sun even came up.

Slipping out of bed, he moved at normal speed to get dressed in some simple running gear. He made sure to be quiet all the way down the stairs and out onto the front porch before taking off.

As the Speed Force flowed through him, Barry was finally able to breathe easy. It may have been counterintuitive to have an easier time breathing when moving at Mach 1.5, but the release of tension at being able to let the Speed Force go without restraint had the same physical effect on him as a normal person slipping into a hot bath. He let his feet carry him, first around the city, then out of it. He crossed the border into Kansas, doing a loop around Keystone before heading back to central and looping back around again. He followed the traintracks in the dark, making his way to Star City (and stopping a purse snatching and an attempted mugging along the way — he figured Oliver wouldn't mind, since he likely had bigger fish he was frying at the moment) and then switching tracks to reverse once again.

No matter how far he traveled, which direction the tracks took him in, Barry found himself turning back to Central City again and again and again.

It amazed him how in the last two years he'd never really thought about running away from his city. Even when things were terrifying, even when things were at their most heartbreaking. He'd tried to put distance between himself and his friends, but the fact of the matter was that Central was his home and he loved it. He didn't have to force himself to return, to remind himself to go back. He didn't have to guilt himself with thoughts of responsibilities and people counting on him. His feet could probably take him all the way around the world at this point and Barry knew that naturally they'd lead him right back to Central City — right back to where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really far behind on these, but I'm going to try and get caught up throughout the day. I apologize in advance for multiple chapter updates.


	8. Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cry  
> Pairing: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart  
> Warnings: P-p-p-porn! Though very softcore, not super detailed.

Barry adored summer. He knew that the heat could be oppressive to some, that the humidity could make the air thick and muggy; make it difficult to breathe. There were definitely some summer days that many would call miserable due to the searing heat, and Barry would not have been able to blame them. When he heard the distant rumbling, of a storm front coming in, however, with fat gray clouds tumbling their way through the sky, he couldn't help feeling... Well, feeling _electrified_.

The hairs along the back of his neck raised and goosebumps coursed down his arms. Barry shifted, gasping sharply as his knees spread farther apart and sweat slipped along the sensitive flesh at the crook of his hip. Leaning back, he braced his hands against Len's legs before tipping his head back and undulating down the length of his spine. Len's long fingers gripped his hips tightly but did nothing to try and interrupt his rhythm, and as Barry flexed his thighs and clenched tightly a boom of thunder swallowed a desperate cry.

Rain lashed at the windows, drumming its cool fingers across the roof. Len's hands shifted up from Barry's hips to his back, pulling him forward and down into a crushing kiss, the growl ripping from his throat reverberating through Barry's own chest as light flashed behind his closed eyelids, followed almost immediately by another roar from the sky that felt like it shook the very core of Barry's being. Although as Len shifted his own weight, bracing his feet against the bed so that he could thrust upward sharply, Barry began to shake for a whole different reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so effing behind on these. It's... It's shaping up to be a rough month. I'll spare you all the details, but real life is balls. In happier news, I discovered today that [Wentworth Miller was playing Captian Cold queer on purpose from the start](http://www.edgemedianetwork.com/entertainment/television/news/193406/5_questions_with_wentworth_miller). As a queer person myself, this really made my day.


	9. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Silence  
> Pairings: None  
> Warnings: ...none? Angst. It's a Hartley bit, of course there's angst.

Hartley bent his head over his workstation, adjusting the seat of his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He was alone in the labs for once, having declined an invitation for lunch, and was enjoying the opportunity to work without interruption or distraction. Or rather, without a distraction outside of his own head.

Even as he focused his attention on the delicate process of melting old, mangled solder from a damaged circuit, Hartley's foot tapped a gentle rhythm against the leg of his chair. When he nearly skewered a delicate component on the circuit in front of him with his soldering iron, he frowned and tried to steady himself. The crease in his brow deepened as his head inclined to the right as sensation pricked at the hairs just inside the ear canal. Taking a deep breath, Hartley finished the task of replacing the transistor he'd removed and cleaned before finally stowing his iron in its docking station and pushing away from the workbench.

Scratching behind his ear in spite of himself, Hartley winced at the cacophony of muffled pops and screeches that followed. Placing his palm over his ear, he closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose slowly and out through his mouth, trying not to focus on the fact that the sound of his pulse rushing through his palm roared at him.

The piercing tone that his carefully designed implants worked continuously to suppress faded again to a low, mostly ignorable hum. Opening his eyes slowly, he was grateful that the ground didn't leap up at him, that the dizziness was only mild as he slid carefully back into his chair. 

He'd never been a fan of silence. Silence was lonely, and it was terrifying, it pressed down on his chest and had always wanted to crush him from all sides. Silence was claustrophobic. With a bitter chuckle at his own expense, Hartley leaned forward towards his work again. How did that old song go? He supposed he really hadn't known what he'd had until it was gone for good.


	10. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Tears  
> Pairing: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart  
> Warnings: Er... Smoking and drinking?  
> Note: I didn't quite capture the atmosphere I'd meant to, but this is supposed to be an AU in the 1920s circa Prohibition Era USA.

Barry gagged back a cough as plumes of acrid smoke parted to swirl around the woman (man? Person.) who used her broad shoulders to navigate the crowd before her. Doing his best to keep up, afraid of being lost in the throng of bodies — yet wanting desperately to stop and stare at the riot of life writhing to the reverberation of a standing bass accompanying a brass band and a boy (girl?) practically making love huskily to his microphone — Barry swiped at his face in an attempt to blink back the tears prickling at his eyes from the commingling fog of cigarette smoke and perfume.

Sweat was beginning to form along his hairline, and he could feel it making the collar of his shirt cling to his neck. Seeing as his hands had been clammy from nerves before even entering the back alley doorway, Barry couldn't decide if he was grateful for the way air warmed by too many bodies in not enough space pressed in on him from all sides. Though he supposed that the ambient temperature could at least be blamed for the way heat curled low in his belly when they finally made their way through the crowd to a booth tucked into a back corner with a single occupant.

Leonard Snart was draped across the seat at what was very obviously _his_ table. His jacket had been removed, folded carefully and hanging over the back of one of two unoccupied chairs. His shirt collar hung open, unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and even in the dim lighting Barry could see how the muggy heat of the club had caused the linen of his shirt to lose its opacity, hinting at lines of another shirt underneath. His legs were too long to fit under the table completely, and as such they crossed elegantly and angled out toward the crowd, revealing new wingtips and the neatly pressed lines of dark suit trousers. Barry did his best not to shiver, the hair along his neck standing on end as Snart brought a cigarette to his mouth, lips and tongue curling around the filter and inhaling purposefully. Snart's eyes were startlingly bright in the nearly pitch room, catching the scant light from the single candle at the center of his table as they traveled up the length of Bary's body appraisingly.

"Dollface here says he's got business with the bar," Barry's guide said in her airy falsetto.

Snart blew the smoke from his earlier inhale out with a smooth curl of his tongue, shifting to tap lingering ash into a glass tray beside him, his eyes never leaving Barry.

"Does he now?" he asked, and Barry couldn't help the way his throat bobbed with the difficulty of swallowing. "I'm not going to stop you from strutting your stuff, kid, but I run a bar, not a stable."

"What?" Barry's eyes bulged in shock as he gasped the question through a cough as his dry throat and shock formed a firm blockage in his airway. He did his best to recover quickly, covering his mouth, but he didn't miss the way Snart's eyebrows quirked and his expression shifted to one of cool indifference. Barry could tell he was already making a great first impression. Perfect.

"N-no," he finally managed to grind out, shaking his head. "I'm— I'm not—" Barry grimaced, his cheeks flaring as he looked over each shoulder at the throng of men dancing with, drinking with, touching, and more-than-touching other men in embarrassment. "Especially not for pay."

Snart took another disinterested drag off his cigarette.

"I am here to offer my services, however," Barry continued quickly, stepping forward and closer to the table. He hadn't been invited to sit, not yet, but he knew that if he was going to take this chance he had to make himself out to be someone who could be trusted to do the job. Hopefully the way Snart's eyebrow twitched were a sign of interest rather than offense. "I'm a chemist."

The way Snart's gaze narrowed on him was definitely interest this time, though Barry couldn't help the feeling that there was a dangerous edge to the intensity. He met the stare evenly, willing himself not to blink. Finally, the corner of Snart's mouth twitched into a smirk.

"Thank you, Darleen," Snart said, turning to Barry's escort with a nod. "The kid can stay for now. Would you mind bringing him something to drink?"

"Oh, no, I don't really—" Barry started, but stopped immediately at Snart's expression. Unable to make his voice work for a moment, Bary simply nodded and let Snart continue.

Snart maintained his pointed look at Barry for a few more seconds before returning his attention to Darleen. "Make it from one of my bottles, not the bottom shelf swill."

The queen beside Barry turned with a skeptical eyebrow raised and looked him from tip to toe before giving a shrug.

"Whatever you say, handsome," she shot back at Snart before disappearing back into the bustling crowd.

Barry watched her go, only managing to take a breath as he was permitted a momentary respite from Snart's intensity. Bracing himself, Barry turned back to find bright blue eyes on him again.

"Have a seat," Snart nodded to the chair that did not have his jacket on it, and Barry took it silently. "What's your name, kid?"

"Er," Barry did his best to be discrete about the way he wiped his hands on the legs of his own trousers, doing his best not to betray how nervous he felt. "I'd rather keep that to myself if it's all the same."

Rather than be angry, as Barry had feared, Snart snorted into the rim of his glass as he finally took a drink.

"You know, kid, I do have ways of finding that kind of information," Snart said, glancing up to nod at Darleen as she returned with a tumbler of dark amber liquid to set beside Barry and a refill for Snart.

"Do what you feel necessary, if you think you can," Barry said, unable to refrain from a bit of cockiness. He'd done a lot to make sure he could never be traced to this place, if it came down to an investigation. The last thing he needed was to lose his place at university for being a bootlegger.

Amusement twinkled in Snart's gaze as he took another long drag on his cigarette, leaning forward on his elbows and crowding Barry back across the small table. They regarded one another in silence for a minute that stretched on for an eternity, stretching Barry's frayed nerves thin before finally Snart grinned.

"This should be fun," Snart said, his voice deep in its softness, sultry in the close space between them.


	11. Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Moment  
> Pairing: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart  
> Warnings: Spoilers for LoT S1  
> Notes: This is a sequel to an earlier drabble, [Glass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7379581/chapters/16853308). Consider it a bit of a fix-it for everyone whose heart I broke. You all have jedyro to thank for this.

Barry stopped breathing.

Len slowed until he came to a stop within arm's reach but without closing the gap completely. Tears streamed down Barry's cheeks unchecked as all of the fight went out of him and his entire body began to shake. He wasn't sure who reached out first, whether he'd taken a step forward or if Len had closed the gap in time for Barry to fall against his chest. Wrapping his arms around Len tightly, Barry gasped wetly and sobbed wordlessly into Len's jacket. His trembling and crying only redoubled with relief and gratitude as Len's arms pulled him in just as tight, stroking his hair and brushing warm, chapped lips against his temple.

Barry slumped as his legs lost the ability to hold his weight, his body run ragged by both physical exertion and emotional exhaustion. He felt the way Len had to adjust his grip, but the man never wavered under Barry's weight and continued to keep him upright, murmuring softly into his hair as Barry continued to weep. As the sobbing faded, Barry let his eyes slide shut to take in the sensation of being held. Being supported, being safe. Being somewhere he thought he was never going to have a chance to be again, not with Len gone.

"I guess Mick's already delivered the news? It'd figure this was the one time in his life he'd be punctual about something," Len spoke softly, his voice warm and reassuring in its attempt at levity.

Barry chuckled and it came out as more of a wet cough. He didn't even have the energy to grimace, simply turning his head to bury his face in the collar of Len's jacket. He wanted to burrow into Len's chest and stay in his arms, to never leave. As he got his breathing mostly under control, however, Barry finally picked his head up to look Len in the face.

He was the same as the last time Barry had seen him — right down to the smug little quirk of his mouth. Long dark lashes, bright blue eyes, the brighter parts of his hair shining silver, and a 5 o'clock shadow. As Barry continued to stare, taking in each of Len's features one by one, Len's expression softened.

"It's really me. I'm really here," he promised, the hand that had been traveling up and down Barry's back soothingly coming forward to cup his face.

Barry's face crumpled, but he was seemingly out of tears to cry. Sucking in a shaky breath, Barry managed to get his feet back under him and his hands shifted. He gripped the front of Len's jacket unsteadily, unwilling to let go of any part of the man yet. His hands finally found purchase, gripping Len's head between both hands, his grip likely painful in its desperation but Len didn't so much as wince as Barry pulled him forward to rest their foreheads together. Len pressed into Barry's space in kind, letting Barry touch him wherever he needed to, take comfort in whatever way he needed to.

" _Len_ ," Barry finally rasped, his throat tight and sore from crying. Thinking was proving even more difficult than it had earlier, too many thoughts slamming into one another in his brain to even catch fragments of. There was so much he needed to know, so much he needed to say now that he had the chance, but it was all too much.

Despite being covered in snot and tears, Barry was actually grateful when Len finally kissed him. It gave Barry something to focus on, gave him something to anchor himself. It gave him a moment of peace and security and it finally brought quiet to his mind. After a much shorter period than Barry would have liked, the relatively chaste kiss broke to allow Barry a chance to breathe again, the shallow gulps of air coming easier than they had since he'd left Saints & Sinners. Closing his eyes, Barry rested his temple against Len's and rested until he could breathe deeply without choking.

"Is this what it's like for you?" Barry finally asked after an indeterminable period of time. He opened his eyes and pulled back to look at Len's face again, still astonished by how normal he looked, how safe and unharmed.

Len frowned in confusion, head cocking slightly and pressing against one of Barry's hands. "What?"

"Loving a hero," Barry said, his heart threatening to implode under the pressure of all of his feelings at the word. The way Len's lips parted in stunned silence brought a smile to Barry's face that was so wide it made his cheeks ache.

All things considered, it was a kind of pain Barry hoped would last forever.


	12. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sleep  
> Pairing: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart  
> Rating: General Audience  
> Warnings: None

Len wakes before his alarm — he always does. A behavior developed over a lifetime of not having safe sleeping quarters carried over into habit at this point. There is no danger now; no risk of a drunken Lewis storming in with accusations or demands, no rival gangsters looking to settle scores. The worst thing Len has to fear these days is cold feet when his companion invariably steals the blankets in his sleep. 

Rolling to the edge of the bed carefully, Len shuts off his alarm before it sounds and begins his morning. He showers and uses a razor he's come to think of as his own. He dresses himself from a drawer that is his in and dresser that is not. He gathers his belongings, few as they are, from the spaces made for him over time. When he's just about ready to leave he returns to the bed, this time easing onto the edge of the occupied side. 

“Sleep well, Scarlet,” Len murmurs, placing a soft kiss to Barry’s brow before easing his way off the bed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picking up where I left off last year, hopefully I'll stick with it this time. Sorry this feels so incomplete, I just had no idea what to do with it.


End file.
